Park Avenue Prince(33)

He leaned forward and brushed his lips over mine before dipping to kiss my shoulder. His kiss turned to a bite as he increased his thrusts. I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t tip over the back of the sofa, but just as I became unsteady, he caught me, pushing us closer, his teeth sinking deeper and deeper. The pain heightened my pleasure and with his next push, my orgasm began to uncurl and my nails dug into his shoulder.

“Oh God, yes,” I cried.

His movements became jagged, and I pulled him toward me, wanting more of him, not ready for the peak of my climax to fade.

He let out a tremendous groan, thrusting sharply into me as his orgasm collided with mine. He brought his forehead back to mine, our breaths short and out of synch.

It was like he tore the pleasure out of me, then coated himself in it. As if our orgasms were symbiotic, joined.

One impossible without the other.





“I knew you’d look unbelievable naked against this couch,” he said as we lay side by side on the cushions, where he’d arranged us post orgasm.

I giggled. “Is that why you bought it?”

“Yeah, I think it was.”

I shivered. “Are you cold?” he asked, pulling us closer. I shook my head. I wasn’t. “I should have a blanket or something. You know, on the back of the cushions like you do in magazines.”

I grinned. “You don’t even have dining chairs—accessories are a second layer. You need the basics first.”

“Have you decided on what tattoo you’re going to get?” he asked.

My eyes widened. “Oh God.” I’d forgotten to look. “Where is it?” I tugged at his arm, twisting it so I could get a better look.

He stroked my chin with his thumb. “You’re very beautiful.”

“Where’s your tattoo?” I asked.

Without taking his eyes from mine, he lifted his arm toward the ceiling. I shifted up onto my elbow, scanning his skin.

“No, on my side,” he said.

Along his body were a few handwritten words. I pressed my fingers next to them and looked closer. “Wait and hope,” I read aloud and glanced up at him as he brought his arm down, hiding the marking once more. It was beautiful. The script was curly and pretty and seemed to decorate rather than defile him. Perhaps I could have a tattoo. I liked the way it hid under his arm waiting to be discovered, revealed just to people he decided he wanted to show it to. It made me feel special. I rarely took risks, but when I had, they seemed to pay off—the gallery, him . . . “What does that mean?” I asked.

“It’s from a book,” he said, cupping my face, distracting me from the ink. He kissed me on the nose. “There was something else I wanted to do to you on this couch.” He pushed himself up, sliding me to the edge of the sofa until I sat up. “Lie back,” he said. “I want to see that blonde hair spread across the cushions.” He pressed my thighs open with his palms and fixed his stare between my legs.

Maybe I should have been embarrassed, but I liked watching him watching me. He was so focused and intense. “Even your * is beautiful,” he said, glancing up and grinning at me as he pushed his hands up my thighs. “Your mouth . . .” He kissed me briefly on my lips, using just a whisper of his tongue. “Beautiful. This, here . . .” He trailed his tongue along my collarbone and I melted into the cushions behind me. “Is beautiful. It’s all . . .” He placed kisses down my chest, between my breasts and over my stomach. “Beautiful.” He paused and pulled back before his thumbs opened my lips. I lay before him as he spread me wide, and somehow it was okay to be so exposed to someone, to him at least. It felt right.

He nudged his tongue into my folds, then up toward my clit. My back arched in anticipation. The fire between us that had built during the auction reignited, as though it had only been temporarily quenched by that first orgasm. Sam moaned against my sex, the vibrations scattering across my body. My hands threaded into his hair, urging him on. I wanted more, wanted whatever he could give me. “Yes.” My voice came out breathy and begging as he licked and pressed his flattened tongue against my clit. Wetness trickled out of me. We were going to ruin his couch.

The softness of his tongue on my clit mixed with the rough of his stubble on my thighs was too much sensation. I jerked and he placed his large palm on my stomach to hold me in place. Two fingers began to circle my entrance. I wanted them deeper, needed him inside me.

He knew that if he gave me what I needed, I’d be gone, pushed over the edge immediately. He wanted to tease me a little longer.

“More,” I cried out. As if my plea was what he’d been waiting for, he thrust his fingers into me, his tongue rounding my clit. It was too much. I gripped his hair, suddenly wanting him to hold off, but he was relentless. The teasing was over and he was going to make me come with a vengeance. The realization stirred my orgasm. I had no control. My body was his. Sensation ran down my thighs and they began to shake. He flicked his tongue over my clitoris and I was gone. I released my grip on his hair, my hands falling to my side as my back arched and I came in a violent wave.

Panting, I watched as he grinned up at me. “You taste amazing.”

I could barely breathe.

I couldn’t tell him that no man had ever made me come with his tongue before. I couldn’t say that sex with him was so different to sex with any one of my other boyfriends it was like comparing ice and diamonds. He was everything I shouldn’t want—everything I’d spent my life rejecting and here I was, wanting him so badly I could barely breathe.